Paper Crown Kings and Pinwheel Queens
by RobinRocks
Summary: USUK. "What is a nation without humanity?" "I don't know," England said flatly. "Spades. Supremacy. Sickness ...The thing that ate him." Cardverse without Cardverse: in which the suits are weapons rather than kingdoms.
1. Part I

Well, it's 4th July yet again - and my fourth one in the _Hetalia _fandom, where it's more or less mandatory to write a fic about America on this day.

Some people like to write about Revolutionary feels; some people like to write about epic birthday sex; and me, well, I just like to write something horrendous and/or inappropriate and call it a day. Shota, mpreg, England shooting America in the face, I've done it all. XD

This year is, of course, no exception. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMERICA, HAHAHA.

(Cardverse without cardverse? Who ever heard of such a thing?!)

Paper Crown Kings and Pinwheel Queens

Part I

1740

What it came down to was that England took delight in winning.

"And I trust that you would not want me to _let _you win," he said, resting his chin in his hands. "Not out of pity."

"No, I wouldn't," America replied sullenly, surveying the board, going back over his motions; England had likely had him cornered twenty moves ago, for he commanded his pieces with a general's eye, something that could only be learnt.

America, conversely, was young and new to the game, recklessly short-sighted.

"I know you're only a child-" England went on.

"I said I wouldn't," America interrupted sharply, meeting England's gaze across the board. "I'll learn." He grinned. "I'll learn how to beat you, England."

"I daresay." England raised his eyebrows. "You _are _good, you know."

"One day I'll be the best." Leaning over, America began to put the pieces back into place on the board, neat lines of black and white-

England, however, was holding the black queen, one of America's last losses; he turned her this way and that, admiring her marble gloss by the candlelight.

"Such bold talk from someone so young," he said. "America... I do hope you're willing to pay the price."

1783

"D is for Diamonds," England sighed, looking tiredly at France. "That's the _nice _way of putting it."

"And S is for Spades," France replied sharply. "...Or would you prefer Sadistic?"

"_Supremacy_, you stupid prick." In spite of himself, England smirked. "Besides, we all know that D is for Desperation." His gaze fell on America, hanging back behind France. "And good god, boy, you _were _desperate, weren't you?"

"Desperate to get away from _you_," America said petulantly.

"Amerique, go outside," France ordered, not looking at him. "Angleterre and I will settle up. This is a matter best discussed... between kings."

America, still so childish in face and in manner, frowned at France. There wasn't much room in England's tent, it was true, but all the same he seemed hurt.

"This is about _my _freedom!" he said angrily. "France, I might be only your queen but I-"

"Amerique, _out_." France turned his back on him. "One day it will be your turn."

"But I-"

"I regret that you won't see me ripped to pieces," England interrupted coldly. "Won't you leave us? There's no place for you here."

America rubbed angrily at his cheek; beneath his right eye, just on the boyish bloom of his cheek, was the telltale 'Q', punctuated by a tiny diamond. He ran his nails over it as though trying to claw it out from beneath his skin, perhaps with jealous regard of the 'K' adorning both men before him. He stalked out of the tent without another word, his battered blue coat flapping after him.

"What _have _you created?" England asked, watching him go.

"Angleterre, the blame lies with you, I expect. I did not make him what he is."

"Except your ruddy _queen_."

France snorted.

"The queen is but the secondary holder of the power," he said airily; he looked sidelong at England. "Not that you would know that, Angleterre, given that you never share."

"Supremacy is not for sharing," England replied icily. "Desperation so often is."

"And longer-lasting, do not forget that." France grinned. "Do you think I am stupid? You need to bring this war to a close because you cannot go much longer without the Power of Spades devouring you." He shook his head. "Had you perhaps had a _queen _to share the burden-"

"I hardly think that's any of your concern," England snapped, standing up. "I haven't the time to waste on you or that brat, frankly, and I'm beginning to lose my patience. If he wants to be his own nation, fine, let's see just how long he lasts."

"Those are fine words," France replied carefully, "given that you cried on your knees before him."

England paused, glancing at him; at the 'K' on his skin, just like the one he wore himself.

"I am glad that I was able to," he said.

1917

"I'm jealous," America announced.

"Of what, precisely?" England asked, checking his rifle. "You're not concentrating. Again, Bf4. You're the one that wanted to play. You said you were bored."

"Kh1," America responded idly. "I _am _bored. This is dumb. All we do is sit about and occasionally send a bunch of men over the top to get shot to pieces."

"Kd5." England glanced at him. "You know that's nothing to do with me."

"Both kings in play, huh?" America met his gaze, grinning. "That's precisely it. This whole thing could be over if you'd just-"

"This isn't the place," England interrupted. "This sort of war isn't right for it. It's... it's too new."

America snorted.

"You've got no adventure," he muttered. "_That's _why I'm jealous. All you old guys, you know how to dig up the Suits - but no-one will tell _me_."

"You're too young." England frowned. "_You're _too new. It's not a game, America; or a costume for you to wear."

"_Now _who isn't concentrating?" America rolled over on the bunk, facing the damp earthen wall of their dugout. "Come _on_, England: Kd5."

"Oh, Ne7," England sighed. "Careful how you go, you're going to end up in check."

"Haha. Kc4." America lazily flapped his hand at him. "If I win, will you tell me?"

"No." England leaned his head back against the bunk.

"I just want to be a king," America groaned. "What's so wrong with that? It's like how it was okay for _you _to have an empire - but now that Ludwig wants one, you have to have a war about it."

"If the time comes, it will come." England paused. "You're in check, love."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are. Kc4. You moved into check yourself."

America was quiet for a moment, lying on his back, staring at the earth ceiling; deep in thought as he ran over the board in his head.

"Well, damn," he sighed at length. "Let me think a second."

England snorted.

"Take all the time you need," he muttered, closing his eyes. "I'm certainly not going anywhere."

1945

"I knew you wouldn't listen to me," England sighed, putting his head on America's chest; curling miserably into broad muscle and musky scent.

"You said the time would come," America replied sleepily, "and it did."

"I wish it hadn't," England said ruefully, looking up towards America's face; shining with sweat, the black weeping on his cheek like a new tattoo. There could be no mistaking that crisp 'K'. "You're only a baby-"

"I'm old enough to be screwing you," America snapped. "You're always like this; double-standards isn't the word for it. Besides, it's me or Russia. You _know _that, England."

"I confess that things are beginning to look ugly around Berlin," England agreed softly, trailing his fingertips over America's bare chest; the crickets were singing in the night outside their tent. "...And the likelihood of us getting there before the Russians is slim. But all the same-"

"And there's Japan," America interrupted cheerfully, his skin prickling. "Don't forget about Japan. Gotta sort him out."

"America." England hesitated; for it would fall only on deaf ears, he knew. "...Just... don't do anything idiotic-"

"I'll do what I want. Spades is Supremacy, after all."

"It could very well be Stupidity," England sighed.

"Desperation, Cold-heartedness, Hatred." America walked his fingers up England's spine. "I still don't think I got a bad lot. Maybe it's about time someone did something stupid, huh?" He smiled. "Wasn't I stupid in 1775, taking you on? _You_, the British Empire, the King of Spades - it wasn't even desperate, it was downright moronic. ...And yet I won."

"You won only with France's help," England sniffed, "and that besides, I had my reasons for backing down. If you don't want to find out what they were, I suggest you do whatever it is you're going to do and be done with it. The Suits weaponry isn't a toy."

"Oh, god, England," America moaned, pulling him close, "you're so _boring_. I'm really starting to think it's because you _like _to fight wars the way the humans do."

England nuzzled against him, settling.

"You'd be surprised at how much smaller the price is," he replied.

[1957]

["I don't know," England said dazedly, halfway struggling between the officials tugging at his clothing. He was drenched in blood, stiff and sharp and copper. "I-I don't know what happened, I-"

"This is America's blood."

"Yes," England agreed in confusion, "but I don't remember how-"

"It's too far gone now; he and Russia both. I don't think there's anything we can do for them now."

"O-oh." Someone cut away his sleeve, tearing the stiff material from his skin; and, indeed, the familiar sight came through, clear for all to see:

His flesh near black with hundreds of small spades, deep beneath the layers; raw from where he had been clawing at them these past few weeks. The 'Q' on his cheek was crusted with blood.

"I warned him," he said weakly, rubbing his hand over his arm. He was surrounded by officials, Americans from the White House, the people in charge of him. "I've been warning him since he was a child b-but... what can you do if he doesn't want his humanity?"

One of the men snorted.

"What is a nation without humanity?"

"I don't know," England said flatly. "Spades. Supremacy. Sickness." He shrugged, looking at the bloodied blue bathroom tiles. "...The thing that ate him."]

* * *

SO THIS FIC WILL BE IN TWO PARTS AND IS SLIGHTLY NON-LINEAR. JUST BTW.

I thought "Cardverse" as a weapon/concept instead of a place was a neat idea! Sort of a different take on it, idk...

Also I've had a mental image of England and America playing chess in their heads for AGES and I really like it. :3

Hope to get the second part done soon! Happy 4th July!


	2. Part II

Oh, godddddd... I'm letting this turn into a three-parter. Why, _why_, WHY?! Someone stop me, haha. XD

Thank you to: **saketini, nuclear taste, Iggymochi, haruhasu, Empress Vegah, Ashley Antwolf, Juni, Iggy Butt, Guest, **another **Guest **and **Lamashtar Two**!

Hopefully this part will shed a bit of light on a few things!

Paper Crown Kings and Pinwheel Queens

Part II

1946

"This is a joke." England looked between America and Truman and Attlee. "You can't be _serious_, Attlee, I-"

"You know we don't have the money," Attlee said stiffly. "And Mr Truman here was quite insistent that our debt be repaid."

Truman snorted.

"I can't say I'm happy with the arrangement," he said frostily. "I'd prefer the money back."

"It was _my _idea," America said gleefully. "_I'm _happy with it."

England ignored him, seizing Attlee's cuff.

"Y-you can't _sell _me like cattle!" he burst out. "What about my land, what about-"

"It has nothing to do with Great Britain," Attlee interrupted tiredly. "We're not becoming the forty-ninth state; not a single grain of British earth will be passed into American hands." He looked at America, who was smiling broadly, the curve of his cheek distorting the 'K' embroidered on it. "It is _you _that he wanted, England - just you, with nothing else to your name." He shrugged. "I daresay we'll manage without you. Overall... it wasn't a bad deal."

"Now you'll get to come and live with me," America chirped. "Won't that be fun, England?"

England looked warily at him. He was speechless.

"Well, then, I'll say goodbye." Attlee put out his hand. "I suppose you'll want to get your belongings."

"Alright." England forcibly pushed away his hand. "This has gone far enough. You can't just let him _buy _me, for god's sake!"

"Oh, England, I knew you'd make a fuss," America sighed.

"I'm having nothing to do with this," Truman said shortly, turning away. "If you'd rather give us the money for the weapons, Attlee, I'll be more than accepting." A pause. "...I don't know what use you think we'll have for your old maid." He let the door bang shut behind him.

"_Attlee_!" England pushed angrily towards him as America tried to put his arm around him. "Answer me! My blood has been tied to that island for over a thousand years! It's my land, my language, my history! You cannot banish me because it is convenient for you!"

"It is done, England," Attlee replied dismissively. "I assure you that your sacrifice will not be in vain. The war has left us on our knees. We cannot afford the Lend-Lease as well. America's proposal was more than generous in light of this."

"So that's it?" England spat. "You're just going to shrug me off as though I never mattered?" He pointed to America. "Just to please _this _bastard?"

"You say that as though we have a leg to stand on," Attlee replied, agonised. "But we have nothing. You know that. Britain is in ruins."

"It's not much of a dowry, I agree," America mused, folding his arms.

"Well, I refuse," England said coldly, glaring at him. "I won't be bought like a cheap whore. You'll have to settle for the money, however long it takes-"

"No," America sang, going into the pocket of his bomber jacket; he pulled out a sheet of paper, waving it just out of England's reach. "It's done, sweetheart. Attlee already signed you away to me." He raised his eyebrows. "And for the record, you weren't _cheap_. The Lend-Lease is several million dollars."

"You recall that we had to liquidate several assets in the early years of the war to afford the fighting," Attlee said carefully. "This is much the same."

"Except _I'm _the asset!" England exploded.

"You are our most valuable asset," Attlee agreed. "And therefore what America wanted."

"Something like that," America said airily, pocketing the contract. He reached out and seized England's hand, holding on to him very tightly. "Come on, England, let's go. We need to get your things-"

"I'm not going anywhere with you!" England snapped, yanking his hand free. "Attlee, this is ridiculous, you didn't even think to _consult _me-"

"What _is _there to consult with you?" Attlee asked defeatedly. "You are not what you were; and neither is the country. This was a good deal, one that ensures we will not begin the new decade on our knees, and if you truly do care about your land and your people, England, you will make this sacrifice for their sakes."

"Churchill wouldn't have agreed to it," England said icily.

"You cannot know that for certain. The world is a very different place now." Attlee glanced towards America, who beamed at him. "The stakes, I would say, are that much higher - and so the bargaining chips must be greater."

"Ah." England looked to America, enlightened. "...I see."

"I'm glad," Attlee said, relieved. "Then I will take my leave. It's been a pleasure to serve you, Great Britain."

England simply gave a stiff nod; and sank wordlessly into a chair as Attlee, his final prime minister, left the small office. He was alone with America now, the weight of the contract electric between them.

"You threatened him, then?" he sighed, looking at the floor.

"I didn't need to." America stretched his arms over his head. "What I did to Japan last August speaks for itself. _That _is Supremacy."

"I suppose." England looked at him defeatedly. "I expect I ought to be flattered?"

"You're priceless to me, babe."

"And now I'm worthless to everyone else." England put his head in his hands. "_How _could you do this to me?"

"Because," America sighed, sounding bored, "it's what I wanted. Don't you get it, England? This is _my _world now."

England simply looked at him in dismay.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" he whispered.

Alfred tilted his head, smiling.

"Why," he said incredulously, "I'm the King of Spades, of course."

1945

"Oh, god," America moaned, burying his face in his arms, "stop _nagging _me!"

"Well, I'm not happy with you," England replied icily, lighting himself a cigarette. "You took on the Power of Spades without having the slightest inkling of how it works." He rolled his eyes. "Not that I'm surprised, I confess."

America lifted his head, glaring at him over the top of his glasses.

"More like you're not happy because I knocked you off your perch," he muttered. "You haven't been able to get your hands on the Spades power since the Great War." He smirked. "It favours only the _Supreme_, after all."

"I-"

"You speak as though England was the first nation to ever use it," China interjected suddenly, looking up from his book. "But they have been around for far longer than even their names; the playing card suits are just a way to remember their natures. Supremacy, Hatred, Cold-heartedness and Desperation are as ancient as humanity itself."

"Ah, yes." England looked lazily towards him, exhaling. "_You _were supreme once, were you not?"

"I was." China gave a nod. "And desperate, too, in 1935."

"I get that the suits move between nations," America said boredly. "_I _was the Queen of Diamonds once, remember?"

"Diamonds is the most common suit," China agreed. "Spades is the rarest. Clubs tends to be a product of regime; and the most _dangerous_... is Hearts."

"Well, jeez, I know the Axis Powers have Hearts going on on but-"

"That's just it, America," England sighed. "This is precisely what you don't understand. The suits are weapons, yes, but not like tanks or bombs. It is a parasitic power, taking root within you at your own invitation, and if you are reckless with it, it will devour you."

"Clubs is in its very nature the easiest to shake off," China mused, closing his book. "It is, after all, the power of distancing yourself from whatever atrocity you may be committing - and so it has very little to cling to. Diamonds can be rendered useless with a won battle; but Spades is that much more difficult to be free of." He looked at England, raising his chin. "All Empires know that the greed for more power is insatiable once you have had a taste."

"Yeah, yeah." America waved his hand uninterestedly at them. "And what about Hearts - the _most dangerous_?"

China gazed at him for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing.

"Nothing rots you the way hatred does," he said quietly. "It festers in your heart until it has taken up every inch of you; that is why Hearts is a regrettable suit to inherit. There may be no coming back from it." Again he looked to England: "...Though perhaps, in this instance, it ought to stand for Humiliation."

"I admit, in retrospect, that France and I did not handle Versailles the right way," England grumbled, looking at his cigarette. "But what about Japan? I have always been friends with him until now. It is _you _he quarrels with."

"And me," America added.

China shrugged stiffly.

"For Japan," he said, "it certainly _is _hatred."

England took a drag on his cigarette, watching America.

"Well, whatever the reason," he said, "the fact is that we have two kings in play-"

"Three," America interrupted sharply. "_Three_, England. Russia is the King of Clubs."

China tilted his head.

"You are quite sure?"

"Positive." America straightened in his seat. "And given his behaviour, I don't know if it's gonna be in our favour."

"I shouldn't put much stock in it," England agreed wearily. "I think we _all _know he's got his beady eyes on Berlin." He jabbed his smouldering cigarette in America's direction. "All the same, Spades is dangerous - and in a war like this, with the stakes so high-"

"I know what I'm going to do," America interrupted. "We just need to finish up here in Europe and I'll be ready."

"That might take another year, for all we know," England said crossly. "Spades is a terrible burden on your body-"

"W-well, what about if I shared it?" America interrupted, leaning across the table; he looked swiftly between England and China, his blue eyes bright. "The way France did with me in the Revolution? It shares the power and reduces the burden on the king."

China nodded thoughtfully.

"It is worth considering," he said, glancing at England. "If you can stomach it."

"I've never been a queen before," England replied haughtily. "Assuming you didn't intend for me to be the _jack_."

"No, China will be the jack." America looked at China coolly. "If you're the queen, Russia might change your suit." Then to England: "You're the only person I would _ever _trust to be my queen, England."

England looked at the table.

"I don't think it's very professional of you to say that in front of China," he said, frowning.

China simply smiled.

"Ah, that is the beauty of the suits," he sighed. "No matter who wins or loses, everyone knows their place."

1946

"England, you can't stay in here forever." America leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. "I want you to come downstairs."

"Why can't I stay in here?" England asked witheringly, lowering his book to his lap; he was curled up in one of the window alcoves, the winter sun streaming in across the floor. "What the hell else am I supposed to do? I'm your prisoner, more or less."

"You're not my _prisoner_!" America snapped, pushing off the frame. "For the last time, you're free to come and go and do whatever you want!"

"Except go home."

"_This _is your home now!"

"Ah, yes," England said, "because you _bought _me from my government like a prize horse and now I'm just floating about in the White House with nothing to do, I'm still a _nation_, as it were, still immortal and what have you, but you've severed my ties with my own land because you want a plaything at your beck and call and now I'm subjected to _this _miserable existence." He lifted his book once more. "Bugger off."

"England, that isn't it at all!" America crossed the library, footsteps silent on the sunlit carpet. "I've told you and _told _you-"

"You have something on your face, by the way," England said icily, turning the page.

America simply rolled his eyes; although he rubbed absently at the 'K' with his thumb a moment later. He knelt next to the alcove.

"Look," he said patiently, "let me ask you again-"

"The answer is no," England interrupted. "The answer is always no."

"I reneged the Lend-Lease in return for you because I need my queen!" America burst out frustratedly. "I didn't think you and China would reject the power the _day _after Nagasaki!"

"That is the way of these things," England spat. "For some reason you can't understand that, you stupid boy. The war is over: reject the Power of Spades before you bleeding kill yourself." He looked determinedly at his book. "Besides, you look ridiculous with that mark on your face."

America shook his head.

"I can't reject it," he said tiredly. "Not yet. The war isn't over."

England gave a deep sigh through his nose.

"I can't believe you've dragged me into this," he said disgustedly. "You're an idiot and I'm not having a thing to do with it, whether I belong to you or not."

"You're not my possession," America corrected him idly, sliding into a sitting position against the alcove. "You're my queen."

"No I'm not."

America closed his eyes.

"You will be," he said. "One day."

"I dread to think where you got such arrogance." England turned the page of his book. "You cannot make a colony out of an empire"

"Oh, I get it." America hummed thoughtfully. "You think this is revenge for 1773?" He shook his head. "It has nothing to do with my being your colony once upon a time; actually, my taking you was for _your _benefit."

England looked incredulously at him.

"_Do _elaborate," he said.

"The hardest thing about being a nation is having to choose between what makes us countries and what makes us human," America said. "And since we're not actually _really _human... I guess national duty has to come first in most instances." He smiled up at England. "But I've freed you from all that. You'll never have to consider the interests of your nation over mine - doesn't that make life a lot easier for you? I mean, you know how much I need you, after all."

England was speechless, staring at him.

"_So_," America went on, oblivious, "when you _do _make your decision, nothing will stand in your way."

He pressed his hands together, smiling.

"That's how I want it to be, England: that siding with me will come as naturally to you as breathing."

[1957]

[They'd pinched his skin between fingers and stuck the needle in; some kind of sedative, maybe, for his entire body felt heavy, useless, with the inside of his skull filled with cotton wool.

They'd left him on the bed, his body crackling with America's dried-in blood, caked in his hair and the creases of his skin. The bathroom was bustling with officials, men in suits and sunglasses in the middle of the night, rolling up their sleeves to scrub the tiles clean. They didn't want this getting out, they muttered. It would be very bad if anyone knew.

A man with a standard issue rifle sat in the vanity chair at the dresser; his fingers twitched on the gun every time England so much as moved. England lay on his side on the rumpled bedsheets and watched him without really seeing him. He was in no fit state to talk, it was true, but protesting his innocence now seemed pointless. The tiny spades all over his skin were plain for all to see.

One wrong move and he would be next.]

1950

"I have something for you."

England, snapping his lighter shut, paused for a moment, taking a grateful inhale of smoke. The orange end of his cigarette glowed in the warm night, tart on the sweet summer air.

"Every year," he sighed, his green eyes sliding to America, who sat cross-legged next to him on the porch. They were at Monticello, a favourite haunt of America's in July. Truthfully it left a bit of a bitter taste in England's mouth; and he refused to sleep with America here, preferring a room of his own.

"It's our anniversary," America said, getting up. He stepped through the doors to the drawing rooom.

"The anniversary of my becoming a princess in a tower," England said dryly. "Good heavens, we musn't forget _that_."

"Well, you don't want to marry me-"

"No, I must certainly do _not _want to marry you," England agreed sharply. "I thought I made that amply clear when I threw the ring back at you three years ago."

"You throw everything back at me," America said cheerfully, coming back. "Every year, I try to think of a gift you'll like so much that you agree to be my queen. I guess I just haven't gotten it right yet."

"How about a gift of a small island just off the western coast of Europe?" England sighed on his cigarette. "I hear the weather's not up to much but the history, literature and culture are all remarkable."

"Haha, yeah - and then you'll run off and hide in one of your castles and I'll never see you again." America knelt down on the grass before him, holding a largish box. "If I gave you back, you'd never keep your promise to be queen."

England was offended, glaring down at him through the smoke.

"America, you know me very well," he bit out. "And you know that while I may be an underhanded devil when it pleases me, to my allies and friends I am _very _loyal."

"Yeah." America shot him an apologetic smile. "I know you are, babe; to a fault, even. But I don't expect to win you over any time soon."

England raised his eyebrows.

"Then why the gift?"

"I have to keep trying, right?" America grinned, taking the lid off the box. "What do you think?"

A crown gleamed within the silk lining, fashioned in the manner of the Medieval kings, rather plain in shape and sparsely studded with gems in sapphire, ruby and diamond. It was gold, glossed like the sun, and elegent in its simplicity, the kind worn by King Arthur, perhaps.

"Absolutely not," England said coldly when America held it out towards him.

"Just try it on!"

"No."

"I had it made especially for you!"

"All the more reason for me to tell you to shove it up your arse." England shook his head at him in disbelief. "It's unfathomable; you _knew _I wouldn't want it and yet you still spent a ridiculous amount of money on it."

"Tiffany's gave me a good deal on the diamonds," America pouted.

England rolled his eyes, disgusted.

"You're an idiot."

America sat back on the grass, holding the crown in his lap; it glowed cold and ethereal in the moonlight.

"A book, a ring, a sword and a crown," he said, more to himself, "and you don't want any of them." He looked up at England. "I'm just trying to make you happy, England. What _do _you want? What will make you say yes?"

"You _know _what I want, you stupid bastard," England groaned.

"Well, it's not mine to give!" America said crossly, tossing the crown onto the grass.

"Just as _I _was not yours to take." England looked at him despair. "_Why _can't you understand, America? _You _of all people - and here, at Monticello, surrounded by the history that sent you to the Diamonds-"

"The world has changed, England," America snapped, flopping back across the grass. "Jefferson and Washington both - they'd have no idea how to preserve liberty now."

He rolled the crown like a wheel towards the porch.

"This is a game for kings," he said as the crown toppled and landed on the grass between England's feet, "and for queens."

1954

It was no secret that the relations between America and Russia left a lot to be desired. They had clashed during the war often enough; but the shared victory had done nothing to mend the rift between them.

It was unusual, therefore, to see Russia in the White House - and yet here England saw him, as plain as day emerging from the drawing room, his scarf static in the sun. He paused before smiling that eerie, icy smile of his.

"England," he said pleasantly, "it has been a while. I was not aware that you were even still alive."

England was a little taken-aback by this statement, which he felt was _very _blunt, even for Russia. He frowned.

"Afraid so," he replied stiffly.

"Ah," Russia went on, "but then again, I _did _hear the rumour that America was keeping you as a pet."

"Regrettably, my government decided that I was saleable," England said tightly, "and here we are; all the same, a few good things have come out of my no longer needing to perform national duties. I no longer have to deal with _you_, for one."

Russia simply smiled sweetly at him.

"I doubt you'd be able to." He turned fully toward England now; and, in the sunlight, the 'K' on his right cheek glossed blackly over his pale skin. "Things have changed since you were king."

He put out his large hand, clearly with the intent to touch England, perhaps pat him on the head; England stepped out of his range, scowling. Russia simply smiled.

"I see your abrasive personality has not, however," he said pleasantly.

"What are you doing here?" England snapped.

"I was invited." Russia shrugged. "I do not think it is so strange. America and I have much in common."

"Yes, I should think," England said stiffly. "I trust your business is complete?"

"Oh, you are asking me to leave." Russia seemed amused. "You are not a very polite host."

England frowned.

"This isn't my house," he replied.

"You live here, do you not?"

"I'm not discussing such things with you." England stalked past him. "Do see yourself out."

He tugged his cardigan straight as he went to the drawing room door; a glance over his shoulder was enough to satisfy him that Russia was shuffling on his way, apparently in no real hurry. Not deigning to give him another scrap of attention, England turned his back on him, pushing open the door and stepping into the spacious room beyond.

The windows were open, the curtains rippling over the sill, and the room was warm. America was sitting on one of the couches with his head in his hands.

"...America?" England took a step towards him; and then stopped, hesitant.

America looked up at him. The 'K' on his cheek with smudged with blood.

"Hey," he said woodenly. "What's the matter?"

"I could ask you the same thing," England said guardedly.

America exhaled, flopping back against the sofa.

"Ah, you know me an' Russia," he grumbled. "We don't see eye-to-eye on very much."

"Did... did it come to blows?"

"Nearly," America admitted, "but we restrained ourselves."

"You're bleeding," England pointed out, cautious.

"Mm." America wiped at his cheek with the underside of his wrist. He said nothing else, staring at the picture of George Washington abover the fireplace.

England folded his arms, taking his weight onto one leg.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell me?" he asked, low-voiced.

America was silent for a long, exhausting moment; then he straightened, looking towards England with sudden conviction.

"Yeah," he said, putting his hand to his forehead. "Yeah, I'd like to tell you that I'm gonna go and lie down for an hour."

England arched his eyebrows, watching America rise.

"I see," he said coolly. "And anything else?"

"There's nothing going on between him and me, if that's what you mean," America said in disgust, coming level with him; he looked exhausted, his blue eyes ringed with dark circles, his skin drawn and white. "How _dare _you-"

"I know _that_," England said impatiently. "I know you wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole." His green eyes gleamed. "I mean the other thing. You know _precisely _what I mean, America."

America groaned, cornered.

"Can it wait?" he begged. "My head is _pounding_-"

"Yes, of course it can wait," England said frostily, stepping aside to let him pass. "But I want an answer."

America, rubbing at his cheek again, simply gave a nod and slithered past, escaping into the hall. England, left alone in the drawing room, suddenly felt like he needed to sit down, crossing to the long sofa, an old floral thing from the Thirties. He sank against it, his head tipped back, his legs stretched out straight in front of him.

There wasn't much else to look at in the room but the paintings; _Washington Crossing the Delaware_, small oval portraits of Franklin and Jefferson and Lincoln, the splendid gilt-framed specimen of Washington in miltary dress over the fireplace. England was used to them by now; and used to this sort of thing anyway, back in Britain it was Queen Elizabeth I and Admiral Nelson and Charles I painted far taller than he had ever been in life. It was clear to see where Europe's blood ran thickly in America's veins.

Of course, he had nothing else now; these men whose side he had never been on, ringed around him every day, watching his every move. America was open with his history and, though England _had _his own place within it, seemed to invite him ever deeper, giving him presence in places he didn't belong. America seemed confused, in fact, that England didn't remember the Civil War or the scrap with Spain. He was truly desperate for their unity-

Ironic though it was beneath Washington's eye.

* * *

America did not get up after an hour. England went to the bedroom and creaked the door open quietly, stepping inside. The curtains were drawn, light spilling in slivers through the cracks, and the room was musky with their shared scent.

America lay on their bed on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, his glasses face-down on the bedside table. England padded to the bed and crawled on, shimmying up to lie next to him. America didn't move.

"Why didn't you tell me?" England breathed next to his ear.

"About what?" America asked, not lifting his arm.

"_Russia_," England said coldly, twisting his ear in revenge. "Don't play stupid with me, brat."

America rubbed sulkily at his ear, finally sliding his arm up enough to peek out at England.

"You didn't ask," he said evasively.

"America, I swear to god, I will remove your nipples with garden shears-"

"Okay, _okay_!" America looked away, huffing a sigh. "...Look, I just... didn't want you to get all worried and worked up, I mean, you're narky enough as it is-"

"Because it's _bad _for you to harbour the power for this long," England groaned. "I know it's dormant most of the time but it's... well, it's a weapon for war, not-"

"This _is _a war," America interrupted icily. "Russia has been King of Clubs since 1945. What do you expect me to do? If he keeps Clubs, then I must keep Spades. Surely you get that."

"I think you're both ridiculous," England muttered disgustedly. "Why don't you just see which of you has the bigger dick and be done with it?"

"That's big talk from you considering you didn't know he was King of Clubs until an hour ago," America snapped.

England snorted.

"Forgive me," he said dryly. "For some reason I assumed he had a scrap more sense than you." He glanced at America, who was studying the ceiling intently. "Well, at any rate, he seems to have a better hold over it than you. You looked rather worse for wear earlier. I hope you know that your mark bleeding is not a good sign."

America ignored him, going right to the matter's heart:

"Russia has a queen." His blue eyes were cold when he turned them on England. "He has someone to share the burden. It's only natural that he handles it better than me, wouldn't you agree?"

England was taken aback.

"A... _queen_?" he asked hoarsely. "You're certain?"

"Yup."

"Who?" England frowned. "I can't think of anyone who in their right mind would-"

"China, of course." America shrugged. "It's not that surprising: China went red in 1949. I knew Russia would twist his arm."

"And now I expect you'll want to twist _my _arm?"

"No!" America sounded offended, sitting up. "England, I would never _force _you, I-"

"You say that," England interrupted calmly, looking up at him, "but you're not giving me much choice, are you? You say it's a war - and perhaps that is the case. I cannot allow your enemy to have an advantage, can I?"

"_Our _enemy," America sighed, flopping down again. "...God, I didn't want it to be like this."

"I do wish you'd told me," England muttered in reply. "All this time, I thought you were just being a pest. I had no idea that you were suffering." He looked at America. "Now I feel a right prick for ever having refused you."

"I didn't want to guilt you into it," America said in a low voice. "I wanted you to agree to be my queen by yourself - because you _wanted _to."

England snorted.

"Well, this will have to do," he said. "I quite see that there is no other way; and I don't expect either of you will back down."

America sighed.

"If only it was that easy," he said. "...But the bomb changed everything, England."

"Yes, I know that," England groaned. "Come on, get on with it. I can't let you shoulder the entire burden a minute longer."

"Okay." America rolled off the bed, putting on his glasses as he crossed the room; he rummaged about in the cabinet for a moment before taking out an old-fashioned shaving razor, a gleaming silver-hinged specimen. "Will this do?" He held it up.

England shrugged.

"I've never shared," he said, "so I don't know."

"France did it with a razor," America mumbled, padding back to the bed. He sat on the edge, drawing one leg beneath himself, and flipped the blade open. His fingers twitched a little as he pressed the gleaming edge to his palm. "...Are you sure?"

"You spent god-only-knows-what on a crown to get me to say yes," England said tiredly, "and _now _you're hesitating?"

"W-well, I want to be sure... that it's what you want-"

"You know I don't want _any _of this," England sighed. "I want to be at home in the English countryside with my books and embroidery; I want to forget about the war; I want-"

"Ha," America interrupted bitterly, pressing down on the blade, "you never _were _a very good liar."

England was silent, looking up at the ceiling. America tossed the blade onto the bedsheets and dipped his forefinger into the little pool of blood welling in the cup of his palm, humming to himself.

"I love you," England said defeatedly as America leaned over him. "...Isn't that enough?"

"Then why not sooner?" America asked, pressing his thumb to England's forehead. "Hey, can you hold your hair back?"

England obeyed, scraping his hair back off his face as America drew a crooked spade emblem on his forehead in blood. It tingled, sticky, on his skin.

"Why not sooner?" he repeated.

"Yeah," America said lightly, rubbing his hands clean on his jeans. "If you love me."

"Because I don't trust you," England replied, lying very still. "You're stupid and reckless and greedy - just like me."

America blinked at him, surprised.

"You-"

"Hang on tight to your humanity." England reached for America's bloodied hand, clasping it. "I mean it; there's no coming back." He looked away. "I feel like no-one's ever had the kindness to tell you that."

"No, I know." America gripped back. "...But I can't let Russia win, England. I can't let Communism spread. I'm willing to sacrifice whatever it takes."

"So am I." England met his gaze again, his green eyes hard. "I won't lose you again, America."

[1957]

[They had spent the night moving him in the back of a canvassed-over Jeep; he had no idea where he was going or, indeed, where he ended up. It was a plain room, run-down, with bars at the windows and a heavy bolt on the door. It had amenities, a bed, thin carpet and a sad-looking bookshelf cluttered with battered specimens, none of much interest.

They left him to shower, scrubbing America's crusted blood from his marked skin; and an official returned with a breakfast tray about an hour later, locking the door behind him. He stood at the wall, arms folded, as England picked disinterestedly around the food.

"Where am I?" England asked carefully, his voice low and hoarse.

"That is not your concern," the official said tersely. "All that matters is that, for now, we have decided to keep you alive. You are not our nation - merely his plaything, in fact - but you are by far the closest link to him that we have."

"...And where is America?" England pressed, hesitant.

The official snorted.

"We were hoping that _you _might be able to tell us that," he bit out. "He was with you at Monticello until late last night; and at approximately three-thirty this morning, he and Russia were spotted locked in combat in Anchorage, Alaska. It was fleeting, however, and we have not been able to track them since." The official scowled at England. "You can remember nothing?"

"...I remember that he changed," England said in a low voice, playing with his porridge. "Though I should think that goes without saying."

"It would seem that he and Russia both have evolved," the official agreed grimly. "Of course, it's a process that we humans know nothing about - perhaps you might be able to shed a little more light on it?"

England frowned, shaking his head.

"I didn't evolve myself beyond human capacity," he said primly. "None of us ever have before."

The official simply glanced at England's arm.

"Well, I would say you're going that way yourself."

England rubbed self-conciously at his skin, looking away.

"I don't know why he let it go this far," he said quietly. "I warned him, I-"

"We suspect there was some method in it," the official said tersely. "He bought you, after all, with the intention that you would share the burden. Russia did the same to China. This was pre-meditated, England; you must realise that."

England looked miserably at his porridge; he had lost his appetite.

"And what will you do with him," he asked softly, "when you find him?"

"It's too early to say. Handled properly and he would be of great use to the military, being as we are hostile with Russia. However, it is likely that he may have to be destroyed. If he has given up his humanity in return for the power you like to call Spades, there may be no reasoning with him."

"I-I see..."

"As for you," the official went on unfeelingly, "since you seem to be dangerously close to following him, you will remain here until further notice. It may come about that we will have to destroy you, as well."

England stiffened, meeting the man's gaze.

"We are not animals," he bit out, "nor rabid creatures for you to contain-"

"You seem to be under the impression that humanity needs you," the official cut in calmly. "I assure you that that is not the case. Your nation, Great Britain, has gotten along fine whilst America has kept you like the moon on a string; and likewise, we have no need of you, nor of America, should it come to that. Please remember your place: you exist because of human-made borders, not the other way around."

The official smirked.

"Of course," he added unfeelingly, "the real question is if your former government would be interested in buying you back in pieces."]

1955

The night before America had dropped the first bomb had been like this; hot, static, tense.

This was the first UN meeting England had been to since 1946; and even now, he was not here to represent anyone, least of all himself, but instead was made to dangle off America's arm like a bauble. By now the word had gotten out that he was America's queen, carrying half of the massive weight of the Spades power, and nobody dared taunt him about having been bought like cattle in a marketplace.

The meeting was over, in fact, and so was the meal; and now the nations and their officials milled about the room, engaging in small talk, an attempt to preserve the diplomacy of it all. Quite what some of these people had in common to talk about was beyond England; and so he sat rather sulkily with France at the end of one of the long tables. At the other end, America and Russia were sitting together, not looking at one another, their lips moving every now and then. England could tell by the characteristic furrowing of their brows as they paused for thought that they were playing Chess in their heads. America had gotten a lot better at it since WWI.

China was curled up against Russia's arm, looking rather world-weary.

"I feel that we've been exiled to this table," England muttered, looking at his wineglass. "The ones with the ugly marks on our faces. The almighty Allied Powers, the victors - reduced to the corner table." He sighed. "There must be a reason we've all resorted to it."

"I would agree," France said, nodding. "I think we are used to winning - and to the crippling burden of victory. We are the sorts to jealously guard our spoils, even if we have to wear them."

England scowled at him.

"You haven't always been a winner, France," he pointed out coldly.

France merely smiled at him, the 'K' creasing on his cheek.

"Then I know better than anyone that there is something to be said for having the world pried from your fist," he said calmly. He nodded towards Germany and Italy, who were sitting across the room with Japan, Austria and Hungary. "You cannot tell me that they look more miserable than we; contrarily, it would seem to me that a great weight was lifted from them in 1945."

England snorted in derision.

"You can't possibly mean to tell me," he spat, "that you think it would be better if we had _lost_?"

France simply shrugged.

"In the end, I don't think it makes too much difference. Still we keep being lulled into the promise of greater things - when none are delivered." He tapped at his cheek, his smile false, Occupied, even. "We are the sorts to make our failings plain for all to see."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." England wouldn't look at him.

"Yours is a relatively-new state of affairs, non?" France propped his chin on his palm. "Whatever made you change your mind after all these years, Angleterre?"

"None of your business," England said coldly; he glared up at France, who wore the Diamond emblem once more. "What about you, eh? Why are you always getting yourself into these situations?"

"Ah, you have heard about the Suez Canal?" France frowned. "It has not been very good for me - nor your nation, I must say. Perhaps you have made a lucky escape; the Queen of Spades is a preferable position to the Queen of Diamonds."

"I agree," England said heartlessly. "The red suits are emotion; the black suits are reason."

"Oh, I don't know," France sighed, shooting a sly look towards the two black kings, deeply engaged in their war of the mind. "How much _reason _do you suppose is in their promise to destroy the world, Angleterre?"

* * *

America was silent on the way back up to their hotel room; England took this to mean that he hadn't won the chess match and kept quiet, too.

"Hey," America said softly, stopping; he looked back at England over his shoulder. "...Are you afraid of me?"

"Of course not." England frowned at him. "Why?"

"Because you haven't asked if I won."

"I know you didn't," England replied primly, "so why waste my breath?" He stepped neatly around America, taking out their room key.

"...Everyone _else _is afraid of me," America said at length.

"Russia isn't." England's voice was hard, his fingers swift in turning the key in the lock. "Though he and I differ vastly in our reasoning."

America laughed suddenly, making England look at him; it was false, of course, almost sarcastic.

"Well, damn," America said with a grin, "I hope so!" He trotted after him, meeting him at the door; and, as England tried to step through, blocked his way, his palm pressed against the doorframe.

"Do you want to stand out here in the hall all evening?" England asked coldly, stepping back.

"..._You _think I'm right, don't you?" America insisted.

"Right?" England shrugged hopelessly. "I'm not even sure what it is you think you're doing - besides threatening to blow us all sky-high."

"It's all talk," America sighed, sounding put-upon all of a sudden.

"_Is _it, America?" England raised his chin. "We can't pretend you've not done it before."

"Japan deserved it."

"Japan, perhaps," England said, frowning, "but not his people - not the ones in the cities, the ordinary people, like the ones killed in the Blitz-"

"War is war," America said coldly. "I have no regret. I can't remember how to feel it."

"That's not you talking; that's the Spades, the Supremacy. I've talked like that before, bragging to Victoria." England shook his head at him. "Are you going to let it _eat _you, you stupid boy?"

America was very, very still for a moment; then he grinned. It was like nothing England had ever seen on his face before-

But for one night, that hot, static, tense night in August.

"Yeah," he said, putting his arm around England's shoulders and leading him into the room. "Maybe I am."

* * *

My theory is that perhaps if I_ don't say _when I'm going to post the final part of this, I'll get it done quicker. _Maybe_. T.T

WITH THAT SAID, we _are _nearly there. It was just that this was getting a bit long and heavy compared to the first part, idk...

Trivia: Truman referring to England as an "old maid" isn't a crack at his age and/or less-than-manly hobbies; in the game Old Maid, the old maid in question is usually the Queen of Spades. XD


	3. Part III

My triumphant return eight hundred million years later, huzzah! T.T

Thanks to: **Empress Vegah, Lamashtar Two, Gues, Iggy Butt, iggymochi, honey-vanilla11, jagaimo-chan, another anon **and another **Guest**!

LAST CHAPER AT LONG LAST, OMFG. LET'S GO!

Paper Crown Kings and Pinwheel Queens

Part III

1956

"Hey, beautiful."

England paused, lowering the towel; his damp hair haloed wildly around his face as he lifted it to look at America in the dresser mirror. It was evening, already dark, and the bedroom was lit only by the glass bedside lamp. America was leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded, his blue eyes very bright.

"Hardly," England said carefully, turning away.

"Of course you are." America said this with conviction, with a grin in his voice, and pushed off the doorframe. He approached England, who backed against the dresser. "Hey, come on, let me see!"

"I should think you've got enough of your own to look at," England said nastily; he tried to pull his arm back but America was too quick, seizing him by the wrist. "Oi! Unhand me at _once_!"

"No." America pulled out his arm to look at it. "...Wow, you sure have a lot."

He was talking, of course, about the spade emblems all over England's right arm; and spreading over his shoulder, down his back and over his chest, scattering onto his throat, even, like black petals.

"They're recent," England bit out. "What the hell have you been doing, that's what _I _want to know."

"Oh, this and that, you know," America replied evasively. He kissed England's hand. "You look gorgeous, my queen."

"Spare me," England said disgustedly, finally snatching back his arm. "You're not worming your way out of this, America! _What _have you been doing to make the power spread so quickly?"

"Testing some new bombs." America shrugged. "I guess that's what's done it. I'm the same." He rolled up his sleeve, showing England a flash of ink-black skin, turned that way by closely-etched spades symbols. "It can't be helped."

"It most certainly _can _be helped!" England said incredulously. "Are you trying to kill us both?!"

America frowned.

"You say 'kill'," he said, "but that's not what you mean."

"How the hell do _you _know what I mean, brat?" England growled at him.

"Because I'm the King of Spades."

"Bollocks." England pushed past him, dropping his towel on his way to the bed. He liked to to bathe in the evening during the summer; and of course couldn't help scrubbing at the spades, growing ever more desperate when they stayed very firmly where they were. "You may think you know this power, America, but I assure you that you have no idea."

"But you say '_kill_'," America insisted, "when that's not the case."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly comment," England sighed angrily, pulling on his pyjama bottoms, "given that I was never stupid enough to let it go this far."

"Well, why didn't you?"

England froze, looking up at him.

"...I beg your pardon?"

"I said why _didn't _you?" America folded his arms again. "You were the King of Spades once, the world's biggest empire, the most powerful country on the globe; you were the master of Supremacy." He shook his head." But how can you know _true _Supremacy if you never let it reach its fullest potential?"

England lowered his pyjama shirt back to the bed, looking at America in horror. He held out his arm.

"Are you telling me... that _this _is nothing... but an experiment to you?" he asked quietly.

America shook his head.

"Not an _experiment_, as such," he said. "More a means to an end." He gestured down at himself. "Look at us: entire _nations _crammed into human bodies. Don't you feel caged in, England? Don't you want more? I already freed you from goverment servitude; and now I'm going to break open these pathetic bodies." He clenched his fists. "The things we could _do_, England, if only we weren't forced to live as men."

"I... I don't understand-"

"Yes you do." America sighed, rolling his eyes. "God, I hate when you act stupid; you're sharp as a whip, England, and I know it better than anyone." He frowned. "That's why I find it so odd that you never tried to do this. _You _must know that there's so much more to us than pencil-pushing; you've lived the life of adventure and exploration, of changing the world order to better fit you. These bodies barely contain us; there's too much history in my head, too much language on my tongue, too much power in my hands." He pressed his knuckles to his forehead, grimacing. "I can't live like a human much longer, I'm going to go _mad_."

"Look," England said patiently, "I know how you feel, America, but-"

"I know you do," America cut in absently. "That's why I trust you to be my queen." He moved suddenly, snatching England's hands, clasping them within his own. "We'll do this together, of course. I would never leave you behind!"

"How kind." England slithered free, his voice cold. "All the same, I think I'll give it a miss." He scowled at America. "You're just like Atlee, making plans for _my _body without even consulting me. If you must know, I have very little quarrel with having a human body. It's gotten me by for this long, after all."

"Ugh." America sounded disgusted. "With all their flaws? The needs to eat and sleep, the ability to feel pain and hot and cold...? To not have to bother with any of those things anymore doesn't seem so bad to me."

Some of these things were, in fact, dwindling in America already, England had noticed; and in himself, too, so that he often took hours to fall asleep, not tired when his head hit the pillow, and sometimes lost his appetite completely. Their intimacy had become far less frequent, too, with neither of them showing much interest beyond the odd peck on the cheek. They hadn't had sex in months, America particularly dismissive.

In retrospect, then, England admitted he didn't know why he was so surprised. All the warning signs were there, America having made no attempt to hide them or his intentions.

Dismayed, England rubbed at his temples.

"And how, pray tell, do you intend to shed your skin... as it were?" he asked testily.

"Like this."

America grabbed England by the throat, slamming him against the wall as he strangled him. His face was set, emotionless, as he held him, squeezing the life out of him; so, so much stronger than England, who clawed at his hands, trying to pry him off.

"No, England," America sighed, "calm down. I'm not going to kill you. I'm just showing you something."

England stilled; though America's words had, in fact, fallen on deaf ears - and his sudden obedience stemmed only from the blinding pain suddenly coursing throughout his entire body, spreading from America's iron grip on his neck, sparking and skipping down every nerve ending.

"That's it, babe." America's voice came flittering, distorted, through the waves of agony. "Just let it take you. Why don't we do it tonight...?"

England kicked out wildly at him, slamming his heel into America's stomach. America crumpled, releasing him, and England slid down the wall, gasping for breath; America righted himself against the bedpost, coughing.

"Jeez," he moaned, "I don't think there was any need for _that_..."

Rubbing at his neck, England glared up at him.

"...Was there not?" He leaned his head back against the wall. "And I suppose... you'd like for to me have just... _let _you kill me?"

"I _told _you, I wasn't going to _kill _you." America straightened, clearly impatient.

"Ah." England pushed himself up, shakily stepping past America; hitting his hand away when he reached for him. "My mistake."

"I was doing you a _favour_-" America began, following him.

"Stay away from me," England said coldly, whirling on him. "I mean it. Stay _right _where you are."

America smiled lazily.

"Or _what_?" he cooed.

"Or I'll rip your balls off with my bare hand."

America snorted.

"Go ahead," he said airily. "What the hell do _I _need them for - procreation?" He shook his head. "Nah, I have other ways of creating now."

"I don't know what you mean." England looked haughtily at him - the only way, he felt, to deal with him when he was like this.

"You would if you'd just look in the mirror," America sighed, nodding towards it. "Go ahead, turn around."

Now morbid curiousity overtook him; for as a rule he tried not to take single a thing America said seriously. He turned cautiously, dubious of precisely what America had done to him in those few seconds he had held his life in his hands-

He wasn't all that surprised to find his entire chest smothered in spade motifs, having spread rapidly like a plague over his skin at America's touch; now they ventured below the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, too, and further up his neck, spattering onto his jawline, down onto his hands, under his nails and between his fingers.

"I guess it hurt," America said idly as England sank wordlessly into the chair at the dresser. "The intensity of it, I mean, that's a lot for only a few moments..."

"Yes," England said woodenly. "Yes, it _did _hurt."

"No pain, no gain, huh?" America started to approach him again.

"Won't you just stay where you are?" England said tiredly. "Can't you just...?"

"Just what?" America, behind him, put his hands on his shoulders.

"...Just leave me alone." England said it defeatedly, his shoulders sagging beneath America's strong fingers.

"No way. I need you." America leaned over, opening the dresser drawer and rummaging around until he pulled something out: the crown, an anniversary gift of years before, glinted hard in the lamplight.

England didn't protest, or even move, as America put the crown on his head; he did it roughly, decisively, and it was heavy, not a proper crown designed for wearing, just a showpiece encrusted with jewels.

"Perfect," America crowed gleefully. "It suits you more than ever."

"You have a portrait of George Washington downstairs in the drawing room," England replied, watching America's reflection. "I feel his eyes on me every time I walk past. ...I do wonder what he'd say about _this_. He was never one for crowns."

America went very, very still; England watched him beneath the weight of the crown, wary of him. He was very unpredictable of late.

"He also wanted Isolationism," America said; though his brow furrowed, as though he was having difficulty remembering. "They all did." He stepped back suddenly. "The world has changed so much."

"Has it?" England turned to him. "The stakes get higher, it's true... but the petty conflict itself is ever the same. I suppose it's just that we all can't stand one another."

America looked sullenly at him.

"You can't stand _me_, right?"

"Not at this precise moment, no."

"I guess I can't argue with that." America flopped down on the bed, squirming to get comfortable; he stilled, sighing, and folded his hands over his belly, looking up at the ceiling. He said nothing more.

"You've got some nerve to be sulking," England said icily. "Really, you're being perfectly hateful tonight."

"Oh, god, _stop_." America looked fixedly at the ceiling, scowling. "Saying that we we can't stand each other, that I'm being hateful... _Stop _talking about us like we're humans! Emotion shouldn't cloud the relationships between nations, England - everything should be about _reason_."

England snorted.

"Don't be so ridiculous."

"No, I don't want to hear any of this anymore. You raised me like your own child, like a parent, not like one nation nurturing another. What is your excuse for _that_?!"

"I did what came naturally to me," England replied stiffly. "And if the manner in which I raised you was human in nature, then so be it. I did my best, as I saw fit."

America simply gave a deep, disgusted groan.

"You don't get it," he said. "We're not _meant _to be human. There's so much _more _to us-"

"America, I do not regret raising you," England interrupted sharply; he stood, facing the bed. "If you want to think of it as me frittering away my time on something so... undignified, then you are welcome to. I maintain that those were some of the happiest days of my life."

"Happiness is just a mimicked emotion," America replied coldly. "Nothing we feel is real, only copied from humans. Even your maternal instinct, England, which so miraculously presented itself when I crossed your path, is nothing but a mimicry." He shook his head. "I guess I can't blame you for acting like a human then - or treating _me _like one."

"America, this is Spades talking," England said gently, taking off the crown, "not you. Please undertsand that."

"Oh, I understand." America turned his head towards him. "Spades, Clubs, Hearts, Diamonds... _they _are our true forms, our power uninhibited by these weak human-shaped bodies."

"You must hear how silly you're being," England said cautiously, approaching the bed. "Of course our emotions are real-"

"No, they're not. You should know that by now." America looked fixedly at him, his blue eyes icy. "I don't love you, you know - and you don't love me. We're just... compatible. That's all it is; but love seems the only explanation if you will insist on thinking of it in human terms." He smirked. "But you'll never be perfect if you think you _love _me. You need to cast off everything: the things humans call love and pain and pleasure, taste, touch, fatigue, emotion..." His eyes widened as though he'd suddenly come to a realisation: "Oh, I get it now!"

"You get what?" England asked testily, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Why you didn't take the power all the way when you were an Empire. The Victorian Era was lavish and decadent and you wanted to reap the spoils of your empire. There's no point in wearing the finest clothes and eating the finest food if you can't enjoy it, right? You were ruthless and powerful but you couldn't let go. That was your mistake, England. You were weak."

"Weak, perhaps," England sighed, "but _you _are stupid."

"No, I'm not." America shook his head. "Not anymore. We don't belong here, crawling in the dust with the humans. We are meant to stride among the stars." He reached for England's hand, pressing his own firmly on top of it, gripping tightly. "Won't you come with me? I don't want to leave you behind to rot. You... you belong with me, England."

"Even though you seem certain that you don't love me?" England asked woodenly.

"Not in the _human _way," America insisted. "I used to be naive, I thought that was the only way: base pleasure, kissing and sweating and... a-and fucking, god, it's all so _pointless _for creatures like us!"

"You used to enjoy it," England said. "...I suppose you were young; but it seemed as though that's what the war was to you, passionate quickies in cockpits and stolen kisses at the canteen dances. You enjoyed it the way the men did, I have to say that it was _awfully _human of you-"

"_Ugh_." America gave a revulsed moan, pressing his hands to his eyes; and then, realising that his glasses were there, plucked them off, holding them up by one arm. "Do you know, I don't even need these anymore?"

"Heh." England looked at him. "I understand, brat. You're evolving. Human weakness and need no longer have any hold on you - and now you want my approval."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do." America's hand was hot on top of his. "I can't even say _why _you still care what I think - but you do, unfathomably."

America tossed his glasses aside, silent; and England, after a moment's deliberation, leaned over and lay on top of him, resting his cheek in the crook of his neck. America lay very still, neither rejecting nor welcoming him.

"I don't know what I'm to do with you," England sighed, closing his eyes. "You're truly a thorn in my side, my dear; you seem to _insist _on being so."

"Everything I do is for the best," America replied coldly.

England snorted.

"If you say so."

"It _is_." Despite himself, it seemed, America draped his arm over the dip of England's waist. "I _won't _leave you behind, England. You're my queen."

"You're killing us both and don't you dare act like you don't know it."

America sighed, sounding overbearingly - infuriatingly - patient.

"Oh, England, it's okay," he said softly. "It's okay to be scared. I know you're old, you've been immersed in humans and their fears for centuries longer than I've been alive... I guess you can't help it, seeing life and death and nothing in between. But for nations, there are more than two choices. Didn't you know that?"

"Without humanity," England reminded him icily, "you cease to _be _a nation."

"There are other things to be," America said lightly. "...Like gods."

"Or monsters." England glared at him. "Don't be so pathetic. You're nothing special, love; you're no different to any other nation, frankly, and damn Washington and Franklin and Jefferson to hell for convincing you otherwise."

America snorted.

"If you're going to blame dead men, why not throw Jackson and Wilson and Roosevelt into the bargain?" America smirked. "You're only blaming the Founding Fathers because you lost me to them; but I'd have turned out like this anyway, England. I _am _different. I'm the New World. I'm the last of the old order and the first of the new."

"Be careful - you're starting to sound like Germany." England couldn't hide his weariness. "...And we all know how _that _ended."

"Whatever." America rolled his eyes. "You talk big but you couldn't have won without me." He held up his tattooed arm, shaded with spades. "Without _this_."

"Maybe I'd have preferred that," England said miserably. "If we'd lost, at least I wouldn't have to watch you being eaten alive by that wretched power."

"That's selfish of you," America sniffed.

"I suppose." England shrugged. "...But I love you and I can't bear it."

"Oh, _England_...!" America lost his patience, pushing him off forcibly; he sat up and swung off the bed. "I don't want to hear another _word _about "love" from you! When are you going to _understand_?!"

"I regret that I may be too human for you to do a thing with," England said flatly, rolling over. He didn't want to look at America a moment longer. "Forgive me for clinging to love whilst I wait to die."

1945

The night smelt of coconut water and salt.

"I've seen the way they look at me," America sighed. "Even China - our own Jack."

"You can't blame them," England said softly, reaching up to touch his face; he rubbed his thumb over his cheek, creasing the 'K' with his nail. "Those bombs... are like nothing else on this earth."

"Neither am I." America pressed down, lowering his weight onto England's chest; he buried his face in his neck.

"I know." England exhaled, pressing his hand to the back of America's head, fingers curling into his damp hair.

They breathed for a while, settling, neurons firing down; his skin still tingling with every touch, every kiss, every graze of teeth. The thin blanket was stuck to the curve of America's back, sweat in the heavy heat of early August. Hawaii hung sticky, tropic and plush, in the night air; it was damp heat like India, England was used to wool uniforms in weather like this. They had a rattling old fan on the desk but their hair was so plastered with sweat that it didn't move in the fakery.

"Gonna do it again," America mumbled. "If Japan doesn't throw in the towel."

"Mm." England scratched gently at the back of America's neck. "Nagasaki, wasn't it?"

"Yeah - and again and again and again, Osaka and Kyoto and Tokyo, until he gives up. He's got no king, no jack, no support at all."

"In chess, the queen is the most powerful piece on the board," England reminded him. "And I've seen real queens who are much the same."

America snorted.

"Japan is neither," he grumbled. "He's nothing but the secondary holder of Hatred. I am the primary holder of Supremacy. I'll leave him with a handful of ash to call his country if that's what he wants."

"Don't talk like that," England begged. "It doesn't suit you."

America frowned.

"_Why _doesn't it suit me? You've seen what I'm capable of."

"Come here." England took his face, pulling him in for a gentle kiss, the damp press of tired mouths, withered with the six-year argument. It was lazy, chaste, and America pulled away after a moment, impatient.

"_Why_?" he pressed.

"Because you're my beautiful America," England said; though his voice was lifeless, he couldn't keep the lie off his lips. He squeezed America's cheeks instead. "...Ugh, you're the _nice _one, aren't you? The five of us, all in that room, month after month, year after year... fighting it out, getting nothing done even though we're all on the same side, all at each other's throats..." He sighed. "And four of us are complete _pricks_, can't you see that? _Someone _has to be the nice one. And you're far from _sensible_, my dear, but damned if you aren't gold-hearted."

"Well, I'm fed up of being the nice guy," America groaned. "I want to say nasty, horrible, frightening things, England, and I want to _mean _them - the way _you _used to."

"Oh, dear." England rested his chin on America's head. "That's a compliment, I suppose?"

America said nothing, merely shrugged.

"Because do you know something?" England went on. "It's like this: I'm Dr Frankenstein and you're my monster. Which of us is worse? It's hard to say, isn't it?"

America laughed.

"Well, _I'm _worse, of course," he said, seeming amused. "_Monster_. It's right there in the name."

"You haven't read the book, have you?"

"Nope." America walked his fingers up England's neck. "And does the book make any mention of Dr Frankenstein sleeping with his creation?"

England rolled his eyes.

"Of course not. Mary Shelley wouldn't have been so vulgar." He frowned. "You really ought to read it."

"Ha, you don't get to set me homework anymore, queenie." America nuzzled contentedly against him. "Besides, none of this is about choice. The humans start the wars but _we're _the ones who have to finish them."

"I rather think we're seen as weapons," England agreed. "Immortal soldiers at their disposal." He paused. "And, well," he added meaningfully, "some of us are wont to flaunt it more than others."

"Says the British Empire."

"Oh, I was talking about myself, naturally. I was quite the little show-off, I'm sure you'll recall."

"A goddamned peacock," America said with a grin, "and a bully to boot."

"Well," England said delicately, "I do hope you're not going the same way."

"Me? Nah." America smiled up at him. "You know how different the world is going to be when we come out of this - and I'm going to be standing at the top of it. The future is coming, there's gonna be peace, no more of this petty squabbling between you old imperial codgers in Europe, you hear me?"

He tapped England on the nose; and England recoiled irritably, glaring at him.

"Your king has spoken," America went on cheerfully, ignoring him. "No. More. If you can keep your promise, I'll build you paradise, England - but you _have _to behave."

"I thought you said you were tired of being the nice guy?" England sighed. "You're saying two different things, love."

"No I'm not." America rubbed at his cheek. "I never once said I was going to be _nice _about it."

1957

America wasn't in the bed.

Earlier, half-asleep, England had heard him groaning; but it had come through like white noise, foam floating far above him, and he deep beneath in the blue of dreamlessness. He hadn't reacted, only listened.

Now he woke, however, and sat up. The covers were pulled back, America's side of the bed wrinkled and cold.

The spades scattered all over his skin were prickling; not painful, exactly, but uncomfortable. He shivered, peeling back the covers, and slipped out of bed, pulling on his robe. He went barefoot to the bathroom, pausing on the threshold.

"Oh," he said faintly, "_there _you are..."

Now that it had finally happened, he didn't know what to do, what to say; so he stood in the doorway to the bathroom and offered nothing even though it had been years in the making.

America didn't react to his presence; he was, it seemed, midway through changing, sprawled on the tiles and panting like a hooked fish, his eyes tightly closed. The floor was covered in his blood, for indeed he was bleeding from every last spade tattooed on his skin. There would be no coming back from it now.

"Are you happy now?" England asked miserably, taking a towel from the rack. He stepped, at last, into the bathroom; and he would have to walk through the blood to reach him, there was no other path. This he understood.

"You're so stupid, my dear." England knelt down next to him, pressing a hand to his quivering shoulder. His skin was soft and cold, spasming beneath his touch. "You've always had a head full of precisely nothing; and you should know that power like this will fill up empty spaces."

This was conversation, pithy, nasty even; to get a reaction, perhaps, although America still seemed not to notice him.

"Still..." England mopped uselessly at him, the towel greedily taking up the blood. "...How it found any room in your heart is a mystery; I should have thought it was too full of other passions..."

He was wracked with sadness at seeing this, the terrible promise of the Power of Spades inflicted on his beloved America; the child he had raised, the man he had loved-

Yet that sadness only bubbled in the lowest ebb of his heart; and rose no further, with no tears to accompany it. He _understood _that he was miserable, maybe, rather than truly felt it.

"God," he muttered, dropping the towel over America's shuddering back, "what have you _done _to us...?"

Though he knew precisely; and knew that he could now only wait.

He sat next to him, his back against the cold porcelain of the bath, and ran a hand over his bloody back; and America let out a breath and opened his eyes, monstrously blue, and looked right at him.

[1957]

["And you remember nothing? You are _quite _sure of that?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," England said coolly. "I've told you and told you. I don't remember anything. I was trying to clean him up and then he opened his eyes and looked at me and... and then nothing." He sighed, looking down at his hands. "The next thing I knew, I was being dragged off the bathroom floor by your lot, covered in blood."

"Did he touch you?"

"I-I don't _know_!" England looked up at them frustratedly; day after day they came into this little room and asked him questions he didn't know the answers to. "...I expect he _must _have, I was drenched in his blood, wasn't I?"

"He transformed in your presence. Do you recall what he looked like?"

"No."

"You must have some idea-"

"_I said I don't remember_!" England put his head in his hands, drawing a deep breath. "...Look here, the only explanation I have is this: he is the most powerful creature on this planet. Human understanding cannot grasp the concept of true Supremacy. Human eyes cannot see what he has become."

"But _you _are not human." A sneer. "By now you're almost as much of a beast as him."

"_Memory_, however, is human," England sighed. "I saw him, I expect, perhaps even spoke to him; but I did not understand him in the human way to which I am accustomed, nor did we communicate in a human tongue. I therefore cannot commit such things to memory." He paused. "That is the only explanation I can offer, gentlemen."

The official opposite nodded, grim-faced. He gestured to another.

"Get me the photographs," he ordered; and these were produced from a briefcase, five large square images in glossy black and white. They were spread out on the desk before England, deliberate and systematic.

"America and Russia reached critical point at the same time, resulting in their tranformation into sentitient super-weapons." The official gestured to the pictures. "In the six days since their disappearance, this is the destruction they have caused."

The photographs illustrated the devastation well enough; the familiar scene of London, for example, laid to ruin, flattened in a manner most akin to the Blitz of the decade before. New York City was recognisable, too, and Moscow, Paris and Berlin, pastiches of twisted metal and rubble.

"There are others," the official said in a low voice. "Anchorage and other US cities: San Francisco, Chicago, Boston, not to mention the further damage in Europe. We expect that you see our point, however."

"Well, quite," England said faintly, looking up. "But I don't know what you want me to say."

"You have no idea why they might choose their battlegrounds so strategically?"

"Battlegrounds...?"

"Well, yes; they have been fighting one another in these locations, resulting in the damage you see here."

"...Are you sure they're really fighting each _other_?" England looked at the man opposite him very hard. "Because it looks to me that the enemy here... is _you_." He coughed. "Ah, humanity, that is."

The official frowned.

"But surely the contention is dictated by the Cold War-"

"Not anymore. The 'Cold War', as you call it, is a battle of human ideologies," England said impatiently. "I assure you that neither America nor Russia have time for such things now. You cannot keep concepts in cages, sir. They fight out of instinct, nothing more. They no longer desire to see the other destroyed - and I must say that I envy them their freedom."

He rested his chin in his hands.

"After all... haven't we fought _your _wars for long enough?"]

1726

"I don't like this game," America pouted, folding his arms on the table.

"Now, now," England sighed, stirring delicately at his tea, "I don't think there's any call for you to sulk."

"You said you were going to teach me something _fun_," America muttered, prodding at his closest castle.

"Well, it _is _fun, isn't it?" England tilted his head at the child, perplexed.

"No." America was quick to lose interest in things which did not benefit him. "It is confusing, England; the rules, I mean, and you delight in cornering me." He shook his head, eyeing the board with distaste. "I do not like it at all!"

"Practice, my dear," England promised; although it was certainly true that he took great pleasure in winning, regardless of his opponent. "Chess is a game of war; you can only know it well through experience, from many lost battles."

America frowned up at him.

"Are you saying that you're just going to keep beating me until I learn to win?"

"If you _can _learn, that is."

"Why would I need to? _You'll _always protect me, won't you?" America seemed confused.

"I should always like to," England said uneasily, "but I cannot promise such things, you know. I think it best that you learn young how to be brutal. That is our nature, after all."

"Then why not _follow _our nature?" America asked; with all the candidness of a child. "Why _this_, England? Isn't this the way the humans fight?"

"Oh, but they've such a quaint way of going about it; gentlemanly, almost," England said fondly. "My darling, you must understand... The world is not ready for our way. Not yet."

It was here, of course, that he first put the wicked thought into America's head:

"Until the time comes for us to be kings and queens, we must bide our time as pawns."

1957

Frankly, he hadn't a hope in hell of knowing what was going on up there.

Far above, beyond the ceilings and the walls, it sounded like there was a war going on without him; felt like it, too, given that it was all he could do but to lie on the floor of his cell, quivering. The pain was unbearble, barely an inch of his skin unmarred by marks, his spine feeling on the verge of crawling out through his back. He could taste the blood in his mouth, feel the crust of it on his cheek.

He was waiting.

Such suffering had no concept of time; and indeed, perhaps it was days later that America finally came to him, tearing down the wall. He stood, expectant, and grinned when England at last looked up at him.

He was a perfect beast; human still at his core, for England saw that beautiful face of his floating like the moon within the circles of weaponry, though his eyes were electric. He was a battery now, his skin playing host to the history of war, carrying every weapon like a wingspan, layered muzzles lying flat, glinting, like feathers. His very heart was nuclear now.

"I trust you're having fun," England rasped.

America ignored him, stepping closer; his body clicked and rattled.

"I promised I'd be back for you," he said; though his brow scrunched beneath the crown of bullets, as though struggling with the words, his tongue rusted. He put out his hand. "...What is a king without his queen?"

Ah, but he saw now; that he was no longer looking at a nation, as it were ("America" or "New World"), but rather...

"What is it like," England asked gently, the mark on his cheek breaking open and bleeding in America's presence, the pressure of his being, "to know war so very intimately?"

America looked at him; Mars, perhaps, the God of War. He looked as though he had been in great pain and had only just gotten the better of it, learning to carry the immense weight of his decision.

"You should know," he said impatiently; he flexed his fingers. "Come, England." Again, he struggled with the name, as though he had half-forgotten it, that human name, the Land of the Angles.

England sighed; he reached out and put his hand into America's cold one. This seemed like the only option now, the only sensible choice, and he rose, his skin vibrant and prickling.

America was smiling at him beneath the band of bullets, the spark of _something _still in there, the essence of history, 1776, 1941, if nothing else.

"I promised you paradise, my queen," he said. "Payment for your sacrifice, bearing half of the pain whilst I did as I pleased. I hope you'll like it."

He tugged like a child; the child he had been once, in lush fields with wildflowers to the knee, his hand clamped around England's heart.

"Come and see," he said, "the world I made for you."

* * *

...OR *IS* IT CARDVERSE WITHOUT CARDVERSE? HMMMMMMM.

XD


End file.
